We Are But Dust and Shadow
by TeaAndWarmSocks
Summary: To serve the light, one must work in the darkness. Arno Dorian/OC. First Assassin's Creed Story.
1. The Irony of Death

**I've had this idea in my head for months and it hasn't left me since. I've been compelled to write it out, so here you have it. The first section of a multi-chapter story, which is shocking because I haven't written anything remotely like this in a long time. Arno will eventually show up, I promise. I wanted to do his character some justice because Unity messed it up and I know, if given the chance, he could have been a great character. So please, if you hate Arno, stick around, because I plan on making him far more three-dimensional and fleshed out than he was in Unity. Give me a chance!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassin's Creed, but I wish I could. As a writer, the idea behind it is phenomenal, especially for someone who loves history and writing as much as I do.**

 _ ***** **Future chapters contain M-Rated content only suitable for mature adults. May contain explicit language and adult themes. Read at your own discretion.**_

* * *

"Pulvis et umbra sumus." ― Horace, _The Odes of Horace: Bilingual Edition_

* * *

Étaín often wondered whether her father had been right in saying that death, despite its obvious misgivings, could be poetic. She thought that there'd be an underwhelming sense of ambiguousness about it, loosing yourself until nothing remained but a phantom, an echo that would permeate the space you had occupied in life like a pungent, yet ethereal smoke. Of course, she wasn't naive enough to believe in such things, not after enduring her father's blasphemous ideals for the majority of her young life, but she had grown out of his ramblings like a wild and uncontrollable weed. Conán O'Shea had believed death to be life's greatest adventure when Étaín had been in his care, even when he had only ever known how to deliver it.

She was on all accounts her father's daughter, but she wouldn't ever admit it, not even to herself. Étaín had his eyes, eyes like sunlight shining through whiskey, devoid of the cloudiness that shrouded most men's sight. Her face was stern, even a little melancholy in repose, which seemed to transfigure into something far more satisfactory when she smiled. Here was the same long-boned face, tapering to a pointed chin, the same wide eyes suspended beneath a smooth, uncreased brow. Only her hair was different, unkempt and brown beneath the hood she had pulled over her head, a nuisance she withstood because her mother had insisted upon it.

Étaín had loved her father but had hated his demeanour. He had thought himself above the tribulations of lords and kings, as if he had been erected upon a platform of his own making, but had understood his profession as something far from selfish to begin with.

And this brought her back to her previous state of scepticism.

Étaín wondered why her father had looked so fondly towards death when he had devoted himself to it, and considered for the first time in a long time why she had decided to follow in his footsteps. She didn't want to become a replica of her father, an arrogant fool who had considered dissolution evadible because he was what many people had called an angel of death, or in some remote social circles, the hand of God. It was hard to admit that the Brotherhood had faced what her father had thought impossible centuries beforehand, but the Templars had grown all encompassing and their Creed, as immovable as it might have been long ago, had become a dying breed in its own right. The Brotherhood's strongholds in Europe had collapsed under the pressure of trying to maintain a static authority. Paris, more recently, had reacted poorly in response to what many were calling the people's revolution. Étaín had been left to face its aftermath without her father's guidance, even when its reach could be felt in Ireland.

It was at times like these where she missed her father's unorthodox mannerisms, even though she knew that he had made a lousy Assassin.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Did that sentence justify his death? Étaín didn't know and didn't care anymore. Like all Assassins, she wasn't free of burden, for something always seemed to stain her conscience like a cloth that has been soiled with wine. It was this concept that allowed her to relax somewhat, to grab another pint from the barman, to lean back in her seat because she had every right to do so. But even the rum tasted bitter on her lips, a reminder of why she was there at the Eagle Tavern in the first place, and ironically it had quite a lot to do with the Brotherhood itself.

The year was 1796 and Ireland was on the verge of another rebellion. She had been left with a name, one Theobald Wolfe Tone, a man who had become the leading revolutionary figure and one of the founding members of the United Irishmen, a society that had denounced the continuing interference of the British establishment in Irish transactions. He had recently travelled to Belfast under mysterious circumstances and had appeared in Dublin shortly thereafter to put an end to some affairs. She had tracked him thus far and was currently waiting for him to mess up, to do something stupid so she'd know what she was supposed to do under such strange circumstances.

Conán hadn't been a very astute man when he had been living and had neglected to tell Étaín his true intentions involving Theobald Wolfe Tone. She wasn't used to such decorum, not where he was involved anyway, but he had made her job all the more confusing and she wasn't going to forgive him for it. Was she supposed to kill him? She wanted to believe that Tone had Ireland's best interests in mind, but she had seen so much violence these past years that even her standards had been lowered. Again, she wondered rather cynically why her father had uttered his name as if he were passing a note in secrecy, but she had grown tired of waiting for an answer. She took one last swig of her pint and slipped from her chair, unnoticed by most of the people in the room save for Wolfe Tone himself, exiting the tavern.

He stepped outside as if to follow her, perturbed to have been interrupted from his whiskey, but had taken to the air as confidently as if he had been wrought for it. It wasn't an unnatural characteristic to possess as a proprietor of the elite, the way he seemed to hold his head higher than his own sense of dignity, but a man such as himself, handsome enough to have evaded political turmoil, had something unnatural burning deep within his soul that even Étaín couldn't name. She knew that this man had known her father even if his gait hadn't been indicative of that fact, but he had an air about his person that demanded obedience. Nevertheless, Tone tarried near the tavern's entrance like a wary infidel—an obvious attempt to evade her reach—and said her father's name out loud.

"I don't presume to know your business," Étaín called out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "but I'd like to."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, realizing that he had mistaken her for someone else.

"I've been meaning to speak to you for some time, but I've been unable to make your acquaintance."

"A pleasure to be sure," said Tone, reaching for his pistol, "but who in the blazes are you supposed to be?"

Étaín didn't think that Tone would remember anything after such a prolonged period of absence, especially when the majority of her father's words had been pointless, but she was fairly certain that he had mentioned her name at least once. It had become a habit, something Conán had grown into after drinking a couple of pints, when thoughts of her trundled through his brain like a train with no intention of stopping. It's tail lights would wink in the distance, leaving his neurons, recreating her face, her nose, and even her eyes, eyes he had known as well as the lines on his hands. If there was one thing Étaín had learned, it was that Conán had a knack for saying things he wasn't supposed to mention in public, and when he grew nostalgic, he would often say too much.

"You're O'Shea's daughter," Tone said after a moment, but it was more of a statement than an accusation.

"Aye, that I am. You must have known him well."

"I knew him as well as one knows a ghost. He was a strange man and you're no better."

"Thank you," she said, bowing before him, mocking his own words of incredulity, "but as much as I'd like to talk about my discrepancies, I'd rather speak of my father's."

He seemed interested now, more than she wanted to give him credit for, but he answered in kind. "He was a friend."

"A friend indeed! You were a pawn in my father's eyes."

"You speak highly of your father."

"If fools can be regarded in such light, then yes, I speak of him as highly as one ought to," she hissed, patience growing thin, "I require your assistance, sir, but it is reluctantly given."

Tone reached for her arm, a movement that would have heralded his death if she had been so inclined, but as much as she disliked her father's personal vendettas and their relative stupidity, Wolfe Tone played a pivotal role in this one and she was determined to find out what it meant without resorting to murder.

"You're just as resourceful as your father," he said, gauging her reaction, "I may entreat the same of you, but alas, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

Étaín ignored his brash comment and forced herself to speak, clenching her fists in a display of contained rage. "And what, pray tell, is it that you require?"

"I am to board a ship come February and I would appreciate your company. I cannot divulge the reasoning behind my journey but urge you to come along anyway."

"I must warn you that I am not my father."

"Ah yes, but you _are_ his daughter. I suppose that's what makes my offer valid," said Tone, turning towards the tavern, back where his whiskey had been warmed by the heat of its hearth, "I knew your father as O'Shea, but he wasn't a very agreeable fellow and neglected to mention your given name when he spoke of you."

"I am O'Shea as he once was."

"Like father like daughter as they say. You'll make a nice addition to my collective, although you could use an attitude adjustment."

Étaín looked away from Tone for a moment, trying to gather her wits about her, but they remained scattered on the ground where he had so easily thrown them minutes before. How was she supposed to endure this man? In the end, she realized that these qualities were what had made him so compelling to the masses, even when he had faced opponents more eloquently versed than he. Wolfe Tone was a quick-tongued, clever revolutionist who had yet to understand the repercussions of France's call to political transformation, but instead saw its original purpose where many could not. It was strange when she thought about it, for he seemed to be the only man in Europe who believed that liberty could be achieved through his own methods and in his own time. Those methods, of course, would be just as gruesome as the gore that had come before it, but she honestly didn't know what she was supposed to do. The Brotherhood was divided and the line between Assassin and Templar had grown too transparent. Her Brotherhood could have easily been jeopardized, but she believed that her father had been right even though his interpretation of the Creed had been perverted at most.

"I chose nothing. I was born and this is what I am, but I suppose you'll interpret those words as you see fit," said Étaín, taking a step backwards into the shadows, evading his cold stare, "enjoy your visit. I think you'll find the whiskey a little lacking."

Tone looked as if he were about to speak, but she had already vanished before he had a chance to open his mouth. She had decided right then that she'd take up his offer because she had no other choice, not when her father's work remained somewhat relevant. That was where she stood, on unstable soil, wondering whether she'd be greeted with more death, or in this instance, poetic irony.

Death had never been more kind.

* * *

Historical Notes:

 **The Society of United Irishmen:** was founded as a liberal political organization in 18th century Ireland that initially sought Parliamentary reform. However, it evolved into a revolutionary republican organization, inspired by the American Revolution and allied with Revolutionary France. It launched the Irish Rebellion of 1798 with the objective of ending British monarchical rule over Ireland and founding a sovereign, independent Irish republic.

 **Theobald Wolfe Tone:** was a leading Irish revolutionary figure and a founding member of the United Irishmen. He is regarded as the father of Irish republicanism. I tried to set _We Are But Dust and Shadow_ during 1796, before Tone sailed to France to persuade the French government to send an expedition overseas to invade Ireland. To avoid "spoilers" (can history really be spoiled?), I'm going to avoid reciting the conclusion of that tale.

 **The Eagle Tavern:** is ironically a real place that has nothing to do with Assassin's Creed. On November 9, 1791, the Dublin Society of United Irishmen was formed at the Eagle Tavern, an area, I can only assume, that became a meeting-place of sorts. I thought that it would be interesting to add that into my story, even if I diverge from history a little and place Tone in its vicinity when he's not supposed to be there. He travelled to Belfast, Ireland, in 1795 before emigrating to the United States, promising to never to desist in his efforts to subvert the authority of England over Ireland. That proclamation was made during the summit of Cavehill, but I'm not going to delve into that. Let's just say that it was a good point in history to start my story.

 **Étaín:** is pronounced **AY-deen** if anyone is having any difficulty with it. Around this time, Irish names were discouraged, so some families adopted English surnames. Many Irish families strove to improve their economic standing in their localities. This process continued into the 1800s as Irish society became socially conservative. In this case, Étaín's last name would have originally been O'Sé, but I researched the Anglicized version and it became O'Shea. Her family was relatively privileged in life, which corresponds with history and what not. That's also why she has such a refined way of speaking.

 **I've tried to be competent with my research, but if I'm incorrect in anyway, I'd like to apologize. I'm unfamiliar with Irish history but absolutely love learning new things, so bare with me! I looking forward to embarking on this journey with you guys!**

 **Valēte,**

 **TeaAndWarmSocks**


	2. I Don't Believe in Ghosts

I have walked a stair of swords,  
I have worn a coat of scars.  
I have vowed with hollow words,  
I have lied my way to the stars.

— _Songs of Sapphique_

* * *

Étaín didn't believe in ghosts, but had decided after many long years that memories could haunt a person so completely that they'd end up wearing the scars of their transgressions. It wasn't as if she couldn't understand such a concept, but had discovered earlier on in her career that there were some people she preferred dead and others that were too incongruous to have been given the opportunity to live in the first place. But this hadn't been the point she had been trying to make. If there were such things as ghosts, she knew that hers were particularly nasty ones, because in all honestly, she had never been without them. It was this that made her wonder about the Brotherhood's customs—the brand seared onto her left hand's ring finger, the leap of faith—and understood for the first time that these things had been conceived with that thought in mind. To serve the light, one must work in the darkness, and it was this phrase that drove the ghosts from her mind.

Although her heart was heavy, Étaín found herself standing in front of her father's estate for the first time in four years. The house seemed to have collapsed inwardly on itself somewhat, like a loaf of bread taken out of the oven too soon, individual shingles stuck up in places like wonky teeth. In the high winds of the season the old house could be heard to creak as if in its death throes, and she sorely wished that it didn't have to be that way. It used to be a grand place in its time, back when she had been small, but her father had insisted that beauty couldn't last and had abandoned it before she had turned sixteen.

There was still some life left in it however, but she couldn't find it in herself to take part in it. Instead she stood in the shadows of an oak tree beyond reach of the window, watching the remnants of her life fall into place like stained images in an old picture book. It was a nice enough picture, a little boy sitting by the hearth, warming his toes and eating a bowl of gruel. There in the corner was old Marta, her family's kitchen maid, pounding dough with great enthusiasm as if the bread itself had offended her in some way. But Étaín hadn't gone unnoticed. Marta shuffled around the counter as if it were an everyday occurrence, slapping her hands against her thighs to rid them of flour. She hollered at the boy, telling him to stay put, and dashed outside in a stupor.

"Étaín O'Shea!" she called out, shambling round the corner in her own haughty gait, "you've a lot to explain!"

"Aye, that I do."

"Just like your father I'd reckon."

Étaín tried not to make a face, but Marta noticed nearly everything and frowned, gripping her chin with one solid, calloused hand. It was hard to stare into her eyes, those deep set, heavy lidded, sharp little eyes, black as currants and as impenetrable as a solid, stone wall. There was nothing she could do about how she felt towards her father, but Marta simply heaved a great sigh and released her, patting her cheek for good measure. "You're your father's daughter alright! You've got his spirit, that's for sure, but you shan't go disrespecting him. He'd do a lot more than scold you, lassie."

"And I know that all too well," she said, peering around her shoulder, "let's speak of other things. I have much to say."

"What in God's name do you mean? You just arrived!"

Étaín hated the look that rested on her face, the one that seemed permanently ingrained in the wrinkles and folds of her skin, so pronounced that it was hard to tell what she must have looked like as a young woman. Perhaps she was once admired, courted and coiffured. Now she just looked like a balloon almost bereft of its helium. She rested her hand on Étaín's shoulder and laughed, a bitter laugh, something that originated from the back of her throat. It reminded Étaín of the past, back when her mother would hackle and curse, a babe in one arm and a kettle in the other. It wasn't what she wanted to remember, not now, and as she moved away, Marta tisked, shaking her head.

"You're off again, aren't you?"

"It's not what you—"

"Oh aye, lassie, I know more than I ought, but tis' expected with your family and all," said Marta, eyes moving up and down her person, observing her robes in distain, "you took up what I had hoped you'd leave behind."

"You understand then. I won't be back."

Marta stared at Étaín with something reminiscent of disappointment in her eyes. It managed to crawl beneath her skin unlike anything she had been privy to so far, a type of warmth she was unfamiliar with. She didn't know how to describe that sensation, but after awhile she didn't have to. It lay like snow over every other emotion, greying her spirit, tainting all that could bring her relief.

Marta, still playing the role of a wizened old crone, looked away. "He that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow, Étaín."

"Such pretty words," she retorted, trying to rid herself of that feeling, "but I didn't come here to be scolded. I wanted to say goodbye."

"And you have, lassie, that you have," she said, placing her hands on her hips, fingers still white from the flour she had been using minutes before, "but what about Breandan?"

Étaín glanced in the window, watching as the boy grasped his spoon with renewed fervour, staring at the gruel lumped on top with mild interest. He was perfection in coffee hues, hair and eyes the colour of dark roasted beans. He had that shy look teens often get when they've grown too much too fast, like they aren't sure about being a man just yet, but he was defiant and determined where most people would have been otherwise. She wanted to ignore the innocence he seemed to convey, the remnants of a time lost to her, but she had no use for the past and only wanted to protect him from their father's legacy.

"I refuse to tell him about this. He can't know, Marta," she pleaded, staring at the woman in desperation, "as far as he's concerned, I don't exist. Let him live in peace."

She looked reluctant for a moment, her conscience burning brightly through that strange, impenetrable gaze of hers, but even then she could see the necessity of such a secret in a world where the truth had been wrought so thin. "Aye, if that's what you want," Marta stated slowly, wringing her hands, "but such a great injustice won't go without penalty, lassie."

"Then let it be so. God save him from such a plight."

"I told you as much afore your sixteenth birthday, but you wouldn't listen either."

"Then when the time comes, he'll have to make a choice. You forget, Marta, that I wasn't given any options, lest you should forget it," said Étaín, removing her gaze from Breandan to look at the woman she had cherished once, before the world and its problems had lead her astray. These were her ghosts, the remains of a life she had known so little of and had forgotten. The brand on her finger had sealed the burden she had been destined to bare, the prospect of peace and normality as far flung as a distant moon. It was the least that she could do for the boy, but somewhere deep inside her heart she knew that he'd discover the truth one day and she was sorry for it.

"If you must tell him something, tell him only fools want what they can't have. He'll look upon you in confusion, but one day, when he's older, he'll understand," she said, grasping Marta's wrinkled hand.

"Where are you to go?"

"I don't know," she replied, letting the old woman's hand fall from her grasp.

Marta blinked away tears, her lashes stuck together in clumps as if she'd been swimming. "May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back," she choked, tears trailing down her cheeks and chest, melting into the clothes she wore, "may the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your path. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand."

And she left. Each step was a relief, as if she had managed to unravel the string attaching her soul to the people and places that had haunted her dreams for years, but even that hadn't been enough. It would never be enough, but she felt as if she had done something good for once, saving her brother from a life spent waiting for something to happen, for a figure to appear on the horizon, a saviour, a loved one. It wasn't much, but it would suffice. Her conscience had been momentarily relived, but the weight of that transgression would leave a permanent scar across her heart, one that would never completely heal.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter contained quite a bit of context, but it was necessary! I'm not going add any historical notes (although the saying Marta uses is a traditional Irish blessing). Other than that, I bid you all farewell! Hopefully I'll have a chapter out next week, but I can't make any promises. I'm studying for midterms!**

 **Valēte,**

 **TeaAndWarmSocks**


	3. Drowning Is An Effortless Feat

Hate is like stagnant water; anger that you denied yourself the freedom to feel, the freedom to flow; water that you gathered in one place and left to forget. Stagnant water becomes dirty, stinky, disease-ridden, poisonous, deadly; that is your hate _._ ― _C. JoyBell C._

* * *

Étaín believed that water couldn't have possibly been bestowed on by God, for it was an entity in itself. It wasn't a controllable thing, and she had learned this the hard way when she had been about seven years of age, too young to swim and too stubborn to even try. It wasn't as if she had known any better back then, not when she had taken to following her mother around rather than acquiring some sort of affinity for water, but sometimes, when her father had coerced her from her mother's hip, he'd paint pictures of glorious proportions, steeply twisting spiral staircases, ancient stone walls, rich tapestries of emerald green, and a castle crumbling in slow motion. This castle, once the life blood of the low-lying regions that stretched horizon-bound from its battlements, was where her father had said the Brotherhood had originated from.

He had told her by the warmth of the hearth, "We are the beneficiaries of builders so long ago that they feel like unlucky characters of fiction to us."

And Étaín, too young to understand what that meant, had asked to hear more, especially of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, the protagonist of these stories, a man who had believed that there was no greater glory than fighting to find the truth. These tales, a concoction derived from the depths of some hidden memory brought out the softness in her father's face, something she had hardly ever been able to witness before because he had been born with stern features, the kind that hardly ever moved the way you wanted them to. It was difficult to describe, no tapering cheekbones like his father before him, just a judicial eye and a critical nature. Even now, years later, she realized that her father had been born out of time, away from the things that he had held dear.

These stories, of course, had served a purpose, because Conán O'Shea hadn't been the kind of man who had fancied despondency. It wasn't abnormal to find him crammed in his study amongst his books and relics, planning out his actions with a precision that most men envied, including his wife. Étaín had thought it strange as a young girl, wondering why he had even bothered to sit there and calculate the weight of his actions as if he could possibly control them, but even she had noticed the severity of his behaviour where her mother had not. Before she had even realized it, he had moulded Altaïr into a figure of such impeccable grace that she eventually came to believe that he could do no wrong, and as she tarried around the edge of their property one afternoon, wondering what it would be like to walk in Altaïr's shoes, her father sought the conclusion of the story he had so artfully wrought.

In the heart of the forest, about a quarter mile away from her home, an idle river carried the debris that fell from above slowly downstream. Large boughs sprouted from the trees and reached into the murky water as if trying to scoop up the swarming fish. Although the warm water was an olive colour from the swirling mud and algae, you could see the underwater wildlife flourish in the shallow part. As a child, Étaín would frequently play along the edge of the river bed, and while peering into the water, watching a couple of minnows making their way upstream, she was surprised to find herself pushed into it.

Icy water was thrust up her nostrils, cascading into the back of her throat and nose. Slowly, the commotion and chaotic sounds of the current drowned out to a low hum, buzzing at her ears, gradually muting into silence. She gave up on the screaming, on the thrashing, allowing the water to hold her body in a sustained position above the river bed. As her vision blurred out and her consciousness faltered, her body became numb and she waited in resignedness for the numbing hands of death to suck away every last piece of life left in her.

After, when her father had pulled her from the river's icy depths, she had tried to drown the sick, dreaded feeling that had made its home in her heart. She had learned that day that her hero, Altaïr, couldn't swim, and despite his achievements and fame, he would forever be remembered with that fault in mind, that unlucky characteristic, because Conán had believed that even legends had been forced to live with their imperfections, even when the world wanted to believe in something else entirely. It was ridiculous when she thought about it, how her father had wanted her to realize her own insignificance by nearly drowning her, how something as fluid as water could easily destroy the foundations of reality as fast as a flash flood. Even then she could remember the look on his face, his dead eyes reflecting the charcoal clouds above, their dark beauty lost like a victim of the night. No matter how the world moved around him he'd never flinch, never turn toward the macabre attention of his own, convoluted tales.

Now, as Étaín finished dispelling the contents of her stomach over the port side of the ship, watching as the waves swallowed the remains of her breakfeast, she couldn't help but think about her father and what he had expected of her at so young an age. She had never known his love, but had learned to admire those brief, indiscriminate moments she had spent with him, the stories he had told, and the smile that had seemed to fill his eyes, but even then those moments had been too seldom and the love she had felt towards him had begun to die with time. She hadn't stopped thinking about that day for nearly a month, and now, as she found herself amongst strangers and even stranger men on board a ship bound for France, she wondered whether she had made the right decision by leaving Ireland and the remnants of her dysfunctional family.

Her thoughts, however, were stalled when she heard footsteps resonating from behind her. Theobald Wolfe Tone stood before her in all his glory, head held high even though the sun was barely higher than the horizon line. Yet he was up. His big boots made a rhythmical noise against the deck, solid and regular like a soldier. His face was stern, yet cocky as he swung his small sword from his shoulder. Smooth metal glimmered. Callused fingers wiped its surface, feeling the cold. It wasn't until he slid his sword back into its scabbard that he spoke to her, the curve of his lower lip pulled into a smirk, a common trait he resorted to in times of inconsequential need.

"You're not much of a sailor, are you?" he asked, staring at her with a glow in his eyes that she wasn't particularly fond of.

Étaín suppressed a sneer, envisioning what it would feel like to spit in his face, to stomp on his feet, or better yet, to haul him overboard like a batch of rotten fish, for he was about as fishy as a man could possibly get without being a fisherman. He'd take too much pleasure in seeing such an expression override her judgement however, for she could already see it, and instead, tried to appear as resigned as the man she noticed dozing off on the rigging to her left, observing the rise and fall of his chest as if it were the most interesting thing she had come across on her journey so far.

"I suppose not, sir, but don't get too indisposed on my account. I wouldn't want you to soil those fancy shoes of yours."

"Ah, such blatant concern," he said, folding his arms across his chest, that irritating smile pulling his mouth a little higher, "that's not something I would expect to hear from someone of your profession."

"I suppose not, but you mustn't blame me for having such a trained tongue. I was raised to be a proper young lady, not a vagabond," she retorted, but he continued to smile, leaning casually beside her as if he had been born with the kind of suave demeanour that some men simply can't pull off.

"Aye, you could say that, but you aren't exactly a lady now, are you?"

She snorted, gripping the railing with both hands, staring into the distance, "Unfortunately, sir, you're stuck with me for the time being, even if you find my mannerisms unsightly."

"You're right, I dare say," he told her, trying to peer beneath her hood, "you're too forthright for a woman. I pity the man who shares your bed."

Étaín tried to remember what it was like to be alone, without this man around to torment her, but the sheer size and enormity of his actions pressed down on her like a storm. It crushed her will, tightening it in a vice. It seemed limitless like the sea, such was the darkness that overwhelmed her and chilled her skin. In response, she looked up, meeting his eyes because she wanted him to see her displeasure, her reluctance in having to deal with his abrupt manner of speaking, even when she found herself on par with his offensive remarks most of the time.

"Be forewarned, sir, that manners maketh man," she said, watching the way his smile increased twofold, filling his face like a cup that has been filled to the brim.

"There's still a woman in you yet, I see," said Tone, observing her reaction, fondling the hilt of his short sword, "there is hope for you after all."

"Your consideration is flattering, but I wouldn't be here if I cared about the follies of femininity."

"So eloquently stated, just like a well-bred young lady, but alas, you're right. I don't care much for your looks. I am in need of your other more enticing charms," he said, and she scowled, schooling her features as much as she possibly could under such circumstances.

"I am not a hand in need of hire, nor am I here because you so kindly invited me to come along," said Étaín, remembering the way her father had coughed up Tone's name in his death throes, trying to deliver one last message, its meaning unknown and its presence unwanted.

She had hoped to find some sort of release after her father's death, where his prying eyes wouldn't linger anymore, but she hadn't been able to escape his judgement, for it seemed to arise like some foul, fetid smell when she least expected it to. But here it was, the ghost of his expectations haunting her very actions, and she was sorry for it. She wanted to be worthy of the Brotherhood—she didn't want to live up to her father's warped view of its Creed—and felt as if it was her sole duty to make a difference since there was hardly anyone else left to do so. But what was left? She wasn't Altaïr and she didn't know how to rebuild what had been lost to the Brotherhood so long ago. The castle her father had described was gone, its turrets collapsed and its ramparts destroyed by the remnants of an army too powerful to defeat, and even then the Brotherhood's greatest enemy had been itself.

"I require your services, O'Shea," Tone said, reaching out for her arm, "whether you're inclined to assist me or not."

She bit her lip, wondering whether the path she had chosen to embark on would take her in the right direction. "What would you have me do?" she inquired, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.

"There is a man who dwells in the streets of Paris, acting as the people's vigilante; his name is Arno Dorian. I implore you to end his miserable life."

"Why?"

"Because he has made a nuisance of himself in a city overrun by political turmoil and upheaval, and I would like to claim the support of the Directory without his incessant tampering. I must ensure the success of my endeavours, and you, my lady, are the spitting image of your father. I can only assume that you possess his talents as well."

"And what are you to achieve from this?" she asked, playing with a stray piece of string on the sleeve of her blouse, "I want to know whether my father placed his faith in a worthy cause, not a worthy man."

He laughed, and what burst from his lips was a chortle, for he clearly thought their predicament amusing. "What would you have me say? It's all a matter of perspective. There is no single path through life that's right and fair and does no harm. I want what Ireland wants, even if it does not see and want what it should."

Étaín was forced to think of that day again, when she had been pushed into the river, and found herself wondering why Tone's words seemed to strike a chord in her when nothing else could. What had her father wanted? Had he seen something inside of her, some strange, hidden attribute she had never known existed, because in reality, he hadn't arranged her life the way she had envisioned as a young girl. But even now, trying to maintain her balance on a ship that she could hardly endure, let alone eat on, she hadn't grown into those expectations, those holey, over-sized shoes because her father had expected too much of her and she hadn't expected much from herself. In the back of her mind, all she could see was the water of that river, swirling turbid and brown, droplets falling thick and fast from her thrashing arms, turning the river into a swollen tyrant.

She realized right then that drowning had been effortless. Breathing had been the hard part. "If what you seek is just, then I consent to help you," she told him, her voice low and even, far more serious then she had ever been with him before, "but do not test my generosity. My hand might just slip."

* * *

Historical Notes:

 **The French Directory:** was the government of France during the penultimate stage of the French Revolution. Administered by a collective leadership of five directors, it operated following the Committee of Public Safety and preceding the Consulate. It lasted from 2 November 1795 until 10 November 1799, and was eventually overthrown by Napoleon. Theobald Wolf Tone, as seen above in a historically inaccurate portrayal of his actions, was sent to France to claim the support of the Directory in February 1796, under the express condition that the French should come to Ireland as allies, and should act under direction of the new government.

 **I procrastinated to an extent to complete this, but I honestly can't get this idea out of my head. I had to write it down! Again, I would like to apologize if I have offended any history buffs out there. I've honestly tried my best to be as accurate as I can whilst stepping into unknown territory, so this is new to me. I'll see you guys next week! Hopefully I'll have another chapter out, but this month is going to suck. University is hard, but awesome!**

 **Valēte,**

 **TeaAndWarmSocks**


	4. Every Savage Can Dance

"Every savage can dance." ― Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_

* * *

 _ *** This chapter** **contains M-Rated content only suitable for mature adults. May contain explicit language and adult themes. Read at your own discretion.**_

* * *

Étaín had learned to wield her body in a way that no blade could replicate at a very young age. As much as she'd like to lay claim to the frivolity of her gender, she hadn't been given that privilege and had learned the hard way that there were worse things to loose in life than her dignity. It wasn't a sin in her eyes, nor was it a transaction she was forced to preform out of necessity. It was an expectation, another pair of shoes to fill, another room, another bed, and she did it because it was the quickest route to a man's heart, quite literally. Many rooms came to mind, ones with beautiful faded tapestries, reddish panels, and some ormolu furniture, but all had served a purpose bigger than her own sense of propriety. In her eyes, she was married to the Brotherhood, heart, body, mind, and soul. It was another burden to bare, one she treated with the upmost fragility.

It was hard to explain to an outsider, one who hadn't been raised under that realization, but her body had been built under the pretence of weaponry, just like the blade within her bracer or the gun holstered to her hip. Everything she did in life was a feat in itself, a struggle to stay alive, to make it out on top, and she was willing to use the tools God had gifted her with to do so, even if it required a personal sacrifice. But she'd come to realize that it wasn't easy to draw blood during such intimate moments, when the men she'd been asked to assassinate had laid their souls bare before her, unknowingly laying their lives on the line.

She thought it a cruel way to be murdered, but her profession hadn't been made by men with gracious hearts. Everything she did was unforgiving. It wasn't hard to ensnare men unabashedly, sinking her blade into the soft flesh of the neck, watching the eyes fade in death even when she had thought herself beyond such sadism. Tone had been right of course. She was a monster to some degree, but had been made into one the way a rock erodes, layer by layer, revealing its insides as time slowly crawls ahead. It made her want to laugh, but what would have been the point to such an extravagance? She hadn't had a proper laugh in a long time. In some ways, she liked to think that capability had curled up and died, but even then she was surprised to find that some things tended to linger anyway, the same things she categorized under familiar smells and embarrassing memories.

And so Marta appeared, dancing across her imaginings like a ghostly spectre. Her jig hadn't changed in fifty years. Given any opportunity she would dance for a crowd, usually in front of the chickens or her father's great horse, her belly dancing along with her in its own independent way. Her legs were no longer in rhythm and her toes weren't really pointed, but she had a tendency to dance as if she were romancing a mysterious man. In reality, she'd be wrapped around a broomstick.

"Don't you go and romance young boys now, you hear, lassie?" she'd say, pointing her broom at her the way she'd often do under such circumstances, "they'll be wanting more than a kiss from you."

And she had been been right of course. But such words served no purpose, not when she had become the very thing Marta's conventional wisdom had warned against.

Now, upon entering Paris, she noticed was that there was a palpable misery there, engrained on the buildings and windows like a sheen of black soot. It had soaked into the dirtied streets and into the graffitied walls. It was in the back alleys where the few restaurants who persisted in trading had their garbage searched several times a day, and not just by the cats. It was etched in every gaunt face, and those faces had become more numerous with each passing year. Some slept in the streets rather than shelters, some clung to their holy books hoping for something better, and some were simply gone, their faces vacant and their stares as hollow as their empty stomachs. She hadn't seen such misery before and couldn't help but wonder whether this was what her father had wanted, a world made free from the tyranny of kings, a world where freedom faced consequences larger than what it had originally conspired against.

What had begun as a pursuit of freedom became an excuse to do whatever one wanted. Men and women wandered the streets like vagrant animals, streets that had been abuzz with the haggling of vendors and pedestrians before the revolution. Now they were war zones, residual reminders of violence plain to the eye. Blood had flowed freely from one lifeless body to the next within the span of a few years, and months after breathing in the air she would smell semen, sweat, and smoke with no source of either. Always she would check her nails for dirt. They had been ripped, broken, and damaged from attacking a man she had prevented from assaulting a woman.

That man had been about thirty, but in the harsher brightness of the day he was closer to thirty five. Behind the tangle of his beard she could tell that his lips were twitching upwards, an obvious attempt to handle the onslaught that had just bloodied his shirt and she commended him for it, especially since he seemed so intent on letting her know exactly how much he didn't regret his actions. It wasn't surprising because Étaín knew that he had consumed his fair share of alcohol, trying to drown his sorrows like the rest of the men she had noticed laughing boisterously around women just as debilitated and hopeless as they were. She thought it ridiculous, but she wouldn't stand for such debauchery, not when those women had a choice as to whether they'd rather throw their lives away instead of truly living.

"Let's be reasonable," she said in French, her words warbled and mispronounced, "I wouldn't act in such a way if I were you."

The laugh that slipped through his mouth was in his eyes, his face changing into a vision of relaxed joy and unrestrained mirth. She wondered what it would be like to watch that look slowly drain away, but he hadn't done anything to deserve such treatment, although she was sorely tempted to spill his blood on the floorboards anyway. How many men had tried to do what he had done? How many men had succeeded? It had become a common reality and she wondered whether it would ever end, these battles for dominance, these dances of control and susceptibility that tarried endlessly on and on.

"Or what? You'll bend over backwards for me?"

"Tame your tongue," she hissed, relishing the fear that clouded over those dark eyes, eyes that were the grey of the last ashes on a fire, "or you'll have no tongue at all."

"You have too much of a mouth on you," he said, wiping the edge of his mouth with his sleeve.

"Aye, but you're in no position to speak wholeheartedly now are you?"

"Says who?"

She kicked him in the groin and he cursed wildly, cradling his parts in an attempt to salvage his dignity. He was a poor excuse of a man in her eyes, corrupt and poisoned like the rest of Paris, but he was the only chance she had in finding Arno. After asking around for nearly a week, a man called the Marquis had appeared in a tiny café huddled despondent among the huge city buildings. Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the drizzle. Unlike the outside the interior was warm and cheery, with bright lights and colourful walls, but this man, as strange as he was, didn't appear as if he belonged in such a place. He hadn't been particularly forthright with her, but managed to admit after a series of elusive responses that Arno Dorian had last been seen in a place called Les Papillions.

And so she had made her way there only to discover that its occupants were too drunk to function and too miserable to even answer her questions.

"For fuck's sake!" the man cried, obscenities flowing from his mouth in a poorly timed mantra, "I came here to drink a healthy pint of beer and to fuck a good whore! You're not the kind of entertainment I asked for, and if you were, I'd have you on all fours, grovelling at my feet and begging for mercy, you piece of shit!"

"Good. At least we've established some common ground," she grumbled under her breath, grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt and flinging him against the nearest wall, "I'm looking for a man by the name of Arno Dorian. Have you heard of him?"

"He's a thief. I won that watch of his fair and square, but he's the sorest kind of looser and one cocky son of a bitch."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard what I said," he spat out, intentionally spewing phlegm onto her face, "that man has what's coming to him."

"Does he now?"

"Around these parts, sure," he said, struggling beneath her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh, "but he's not what you'd call a people's man."

Étaín opened her mouth to speak but his laugh distracted her in a way she found quite unappealing. People think of laughing as a noise that comes from the mouth, but when this man laughed it was nothing like that. This laugh had been etched into his very character, in the way he rolled his eyes and bit his lip. Yet it wasn't in his face. His laugh had come from within, as if the humour bubbling inside his body had become fuel for his synapses.

"Ain't that right, Arno?" the man called out, his voice ringing throughout the tavern like the peal of a church bell, and Étaín's stomach clenched in anticipation for the first time that afternoon.

It wasn't hard to discern from the sudden onslaught of silence that a figure had appeared in the tavern as if he had been privy to every nook and cranny beforehand, every weathered floorboard and every burnished window sill. As she turned to face him, she discovered that he was a tall fellow, lean as a greyhound and in colour neither dark nor fair. His eyes were deep-set and looked out from a face that was slightly red from the February air. His nose was straight and large, cheeks well hollowed; the face would have been stern but for the humor that lurked about the mouth. He had the swagger of someone she wouldn't have wanted to lock eyes with, let alone cross, but his trajectory was set for her, eyes locked onto her hands, her face, and the hood that obscured it, but she decided to busy herself by imagining how it would feel to crush his nose in with the heel of her boot instead.

"Arno, is it?" she asked, gripping the man's shirt tighter in her grasp, "I've been expecting you."

He didn't speak, which would have perturbed her if she were any other person, for his presence had clearly affected the mood of the tavern. Hushed whispers tumbled around her like little pebbles onto sand. They dropped too fast for her to catch and landed softly at Arno's feet where his left hand had clasped the back of a chair, dragging it across the floor. He was the subject of rumour she realized, an apparition that was no more than a distortion of the light, a human cut out of colours that weren't right. Where he moved the things behind it appeared bowed, as if looked at through a mild fish-eye lens.

After a moment of silent contemplation, she released the man she had been attempting to interrogate, and he scurried off, spitting on her boots as he fled. Then, as quickly as she had entered the tavern, she crossed the room without leaving so much as a foot impression in the dust.

It was in that moment of absolute stillness that God tipped the balance to Arno. The wind outside died, the leaves of nearby trees ceased to rustle, even the rumble of Les Papillions' timbers shuttered one last time as if in its death throes. In those seconds Étaín could hear the floorboards creaking under Arno's boots, just enough to give her an idea of what he was about to do, but she couldn't have been more wrong. She took one step forward, twisting her hand in a slow circle, revealing the blade nestled in her bracer, and just like that, her fate had been sealed.

* * *

 **A/N: I loved writing this chapter. It was challenging for some stupid reason, but I loved it nonetheless. I apologize if it was too descriptive, so I might change _We Are But Dust and Shadows'_ rating if need be. Tis' not for the weak of heart! **

**I'd like to thank everyone who has given my story a chance. You guys keep me going and inspire me to continue. I really appreciate it. Until next week, my friends!**

 **Valēte,**

 **TeaAndWarmSocks**


	5. Winner at a Losing Game

"Let us embrace each other like we have the arms of two chairs." ― Jarod Kintz

* * *

 *** This chapter contains M-Rated content only suitable for mature adults. Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

Étaín had never been fond of chairs. It wasn't in her nature to seek comfort, planted firmly in a chair as if she were a flower instead of a person. As a child, she'd sit in a way that would grate on her mother's nerves purposely, legs dangling over the edge, utterly bored. She assumed that chairs had multiple connotations for different people, but for her, they were places for thoughtless wondering, places where the world would freeze, standing still. Arno didn't care much for chairs either. As the silence between them snapped, he hurled the chair he'd been leaning against towards her head and like a great rush of water, memory came to her.

Étaín wasn't sure how old she had been when had she begun her training, but could distinctly remember how her father had managed to coerce her from her mother's strict set of principles when she should have been studying etiquette or stitching embroidery, examining the threads of an old, blue coat the colour of a midwinter's night. It wasn't as if she had known any better, but Conán had a knack for that, undermining her mother's plans, uprooting the very foundations of the house to do whatever he had wanted to do in the first place. Like the jacket, he had tried to appeal to her mother's better nature. Why make something so exquisite from tweed? Her father may have appeared to be kind and docile on the surface, a man whose mouth moulded into a gentle heart when he smiled, but he was a talented liar. When he opened those lips everyone would stop to listen, and it was like hearing birdsong for the first time.

So when he'd begin to recite those glorious tales, she'd abandon her lessons instead of working, leaving her mother's blue coat unwanted in a vortex of dust.

It had the look of another decade, of cold snowy days when her mother would slip into its sleeves, but Étaín had no love for finery. She had been ensnared by Conán's words instead, falling for his lies, his smile, and his eyes. He seldom smiled with his lips, but his eyes shone instead, and it was this radiance that made every man and woman feel the irresistible impulse to smile in reciprocation. Étaín knew that Conán's stories had drawn her in like a moth to a flame. Before she had become aware of it, she'd steal away from her lessons days at a time, words tumbling slowly and cautiously out of her father's mouth, each one wrapped in a heavy voice.

When those stories had begun to wane, Conán would teach her things, reciting verses from philosophers and poets over the span of many years, but her first real lesson had involved a chair. It was Marta's chair, and to Marta it was the bastion of all her favourite memories. It was in that creaking wood that she had nursed newborns, read storybooks to toddlers, and had sat knitting while Étaín prowled around the kitchen looking for spare scraps of food to eat. Without it her recollections would have felt distant, almost as if they had been borrowed from someone else, and that was precisely what had happened.

After an afternoon of repetitive stitching, Conán had decided to drag Étaín into the herb garden, a place where the grass had been trimmed short between rectangular beds. Marta's rocking chair had been placed in the middle of one of those patches, a warped, unsightly spectacle amongst an orchestra of aromatic leaves, scented blossoms, and sprouts of thyme. It had seen better days, and no amount of polishing could conceal the the chips on the curved gliders or the scratch marks on the seat. Even the upholstery had rectangular tears and a stain or two, but as her father began to circle round it, rocking on the heels of his feet, it became an eerie sight instead of a comforting one.

"You must learn to use your enemy's' momentum against them," he had said, encircling the chair, "not only at its tipping point, but also within all the moments waiting."

And she had. But not after failing more times than she could count on her fingers alone. Marta's chair, by the end of their spare, resembled little of what it used to be. Pieces were scattered across the garden as if her father had chucked a chessboard into the nearest patch of chives, and Étaín was utterly spent. This wasn't what she had anticipated and had become frightened, especially since Conán seemed so intent on letting her know just how far she had fallen, how easily she had believed his lies, and how little she knew of the world.

Had Conán understood the repercussions of dragging her into his stories, pretending that the turrets of Masyaf hadn't really collapsed? If she had known any better as a child, she would have lived within the confines of her stitching equipment instead, sliding into the same unaltered sleeves of her mother's coat. Conán's stories wouldn't have gained so much relevance then, and she wouldn't have held them in such high regard.

"How courteous," she said, standing in the remnants of Arno's chair, "some say that the age of chivalry is past, but you're clearly a man of good morals. I didn't think you had it in you."

"I try my best."

"Aye, but that alone won't be enough to save you."

They grunted as they took handfuls of each other's clothing, wrestling the other to the ground. Étaín attempted to jab Arno in the ribs, but he dived forwards, winding his fist into her hair until it stopped at the roots. Then he pulled her down to the ground in one violent tug. She struggled back and reached for Arno's hood, but on finding only fabric, she had nothing to hold on to. Unable to retaliate, her face connected with his knee, and there was a ripping, popping sound as the cartilage in her nose snapped.

When Les Papillions had become as empty as the tumbler rolling across the floorboards, she heard someone mention retrieving the marshals. That reality was more troublesome to her than dying. She had too much to do and was not inclined to determine Arno's fate under the watch of foolish men.

"As much as I'd like to stay and chat, I must depart," she said, deciding that it would be too risky to continuing fighting. In his triumph, Arno smirked—just a small pouting of the lips; a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head. It was so subtle, yet it was even more infuriating for Étaín who caught a glimpse of it. Under different circumstances, away from chairs, bars, and people, she knew that he'd falter, versatile where she was obstinate, predictable enough to have warranted failure.

"Who are you?" he asked, interrupting her musings, pressing his blade against her jugular.

"What's in it for you?"

"Nothing."

"Then why bother asking?"

"Because I'd sleep better at night knowing that you're gone," said Arno, pulling harshly on her hair, watching her face furrow in pain.

"If that's what you want. I can't promise it'll bring you any reprieve."

"I never asked for reprieve," he hissed, pressing down on the bridge of her nose, "I asked for your name."

Étaín's mind screamed out as pain drove through her skull. Every thought became confused, intensifying her senses to the point where she felt an excessive desire to scream. As she stared into his eyes, she grew intentionally cold, lacking mobility, demanding release, but even Arno couldn't find it in himself to let go. It was like the elongated eye contact demanded a greater degree of emotional separation. It wasn't something he ever noticed himself, but to Étaín it was obvious.

"My name is Étaín," she croaked, gasping for air, "Étaín O'Shea."

She saw the shock register on his face before he could hide it, his mouth articulating her name, savouring the consonants on his tongue as if he were her lover.

She had been taught that fear could become shackles if one let it, a knife in the gut slowly twisted, a constant ache in your bones. But unlike most people, fear didn't shut Étaín down. As the sound of footsteps drew nearer, she used Arno's hesitation to her advantage. She wrenched her head from his grasp, diving towards what appeared to be scaffolding. Just as he began to drag her down however, she readjusted her footing, kicking him in the face. She felt his nose give way beneath her boot, an eye for an eye, and laughed as he toppled to the ground, bait for the marshals veering round the corner.

As she ascended the scaffolding, she was pleased to notice Arno fleeing in the opposite direction, but was nonetheless prepared to evade him if he decided to change course. How could she possibly find it in herself to kill an assassin, one garbed in her own attire? Tone hadn't said anything about that, and to make matters worse, Arno had recognized her name, had broken her nose, and had even hesitated, an unspeakable evil in her line of work.

It was all because of a chair, one stupid, ridiculous chair, and if she had known any better, she would have called herself a winner at a losing game.

* * *

 **A/N: I'd like to apologize for being so incompetent. I've been busy with school, and exams are in a couple of weeks too, so I need to start focusing on obtaining the requirements necessary for my major. Plus, this chapter made me want to tear my hair out. I'm not too happy with it, but this is the best that I could come up with after working on it for so long.**

 **Yes, Étaín's an ass, but I swear she'll go through a period of self-reflection shortly. Arno, on the other hand, was fun to write. He's such a badass when he's not sulking.**

 **I'd like to thank everyone who has invested their time into this story. You guys are phenomenal! Thank you very much!**

 **Valēte,**

 **TeaAndWarmSocks**


End file.
